Choosing a flat spot near one of the better picnic tables, about ten yards from the stream, I started the engine to move the car, and Mister followed on a dead run with a worried expression on his face.
A curve-handled pump, sky-blue paint peeling, stood on a concrete slab about twenty yards south of the site. A small cluster of evergreens and aspens grew proudly ten yards north. Rosalie had not yet noticed the lack of sanitary facilities.
I’d worked diligently to convince my city-raised bride that camping out would be an inexpensive yet wonderful honeymoon experience. The clincher was that I had promised to see to her every creature need. She warned me that she intended to make the most of that promise.
I retrieved my families’ old canvas umbrella tent, smelling of campfire smoke and pine needles, off the luggage rack, staked it out, put up the poles, raised it, and laid an extra ground cloth over the floor. Next, I rolled out and blew up an air mattress, laid a foam pad over it for Rosalie and another foam pad directly on the ground cloth for myself. Our sleeping arrangements were complete when I rolled out our two bags, one borrowed from my brother.
I rebuilt the loose-rock fireplace, scattered by previous campers. All the wood on the ground was soggy, so I collected a large stack of dead lower branches from nearby trees and started a fire. The sun dipped behind distant western peaks, but the fire was roaring, and the camp well organized. Rosalie sat facing out on one of the table’s benches, hugging herself, and watching me work.
The dog shifted his attention to the stream and its near bank. Black mud reached halfway up his legs.
“I’ll get him cleaned up,” I murmured.
I walked to the well and tried the pump. After several minutes of futile effort, I decided the leathers were dried out and the pump wasn’t going to work. It needed more attention than I was prepared to give.
“I’ll wipe him off with a towel before we get into the tent,” I told Rosalie.
One of my veterinary instrument purchases was a two-gallon stainless steel bucket, perfect for dipping water out of the stream. I filled it halfway and set it on one corner of the picnic table next to the Coleman stove. Opening our ice chest, I took out a large, inch-thick T-bone and a package, triple wrapped in aluminum foil, containing two parboiled potatoes, four parboiled carrots, a raw onion, and a handful of raw cauliflower. I placed a large, blue enamel coffee pot full of water on the Coleman stove. After the campfire burned down, I situated the foil pack of vegetables amongst the coals and rebuilt the fire. When the fire burned down again, I arranged a small wire grill over the coals, rubbed the steak with onion salt and coarsely ground black pepper, and put it on the grill.
The water boiled, and the steak was well done. We sat across from each other, and I served Rosalie the eye of the T-bone and some of the steaming vegetables from the foil package. We ate in gathering darkness.
Halfway through our meal, the campfire, built up a third time, faded to embers. Sparks drifted into the low-hanging clouds.
After we finished eating, I stripped the steak bone of all fat and meat and dumped that and Rosalie’s leftovers into Mister’s dish, adding two handfuls of kibble. The dog pushed the quickly emptied bowl over the ground with his tongue, licking it spotless.
Rosalie consumed three cups of tea trying to stay warm.
“OK, where do I go to the toilet?”
I took out a GI folding shovel and fixed the blade at a right angle to the handle. “You use it like this,” I demonstrated, “to scrape out a hole. Then you squat over the hole. You need to tuck the TP inside your coat so it doesn’t fall on the ground and get wet.”
As my demonstration progressed, so did her frown.
I took her, unyielding, into my arms and rubbed the small of her back. “It’s OK. It’s not that bad. Indoor plumbing is a recent development. Outhouses are just a step above a hole in the ground.”
She glared at me, remained stiff-backed, silent. I took the roll of toilet paper gently from her hands, tucked it in the front of my jacket, took the shovel under my arm, a flashlight in one hand, her hand in the other, and led her off into the nearby thicket.
Rosalie stood silently while I dug a shallow hole. I handed her the roll of TP and the flashlight.
“Call me when you’re done. Come on, Mister.”
After a few minutes, she returned, lips clenched. She retrieved her overnight case from the car and ducked into the tent.
“Do you want the Coleman lantern inside the tent?”
She nodded, her lips clamped tight. A single tear coursed down her left cheek.
I held my tongue between my teeth.
The wind, smelling of rain, kicked up and dropped the temperature another few degrees. I built up the campfire, then found a fair-sized log, manhandled it close to the fire, and laid the empty tent bag over it.
“Come on out, honey. It’s not all that bad, is it? Come sit here. The fire’s warm. I’ll make certain all the rest of the places we stop at have restrooms, I promise. This is a state campground, not a national. It didn’t occur to me that they wouldn’t have at least an outhouse. Come on; don’t pout.”
She joined me on the log. We sat side by side staring at the fire. Mister sat and stared at us, his head tilted to one side. After a few minutes of strained silence, the dog nuzzled under Rosalie’s free arm until she was hugging his head while he licked her cheek. She smiled, patted him on the head, and rubbed his ears. He rested his head on her knee. She continued to rub his ears while the dog gazed at her.
I was desperate to start a conversation.
“I sure wish I was able to zip our sleeping bags together. The damn zippers don’t mesh.”
“Do you ever think about anything else?” She feigned exasperation.
“You’re giving me the business, right?”
“What do you think?” she said.
“Yeah, I think you’re giving me the business. You’re still pissed because you had to pee in the woods.”
Mister stuck his nose under her coat and pushed aside her sweater.
“Yeeoh!” she shrieked jumping onto my lap, her arms around my neck. “His nose is freezing!”
“Yeah, it took me months to train him to do that.”
***
Sleet pounded the tent while we dozed. The ground was hard and damp. Even with the foam pads, it was a long, uncomfortable night. The tent didn’t leak, despite its age, but the dampness permeated. Light filtered weakly into the tent as we awoke, face to face.
“Good morning,” mumbled Rosalie. “Are you awake? I didn’t sleep at all.”
I reached an arm out of my sleeping bag stroking her face with the knuckle of my right index finger. “Sure you did. I woke up several times during the night, and you were sound asleep each time. I’m getting up. I’ve got to pee.”
“Me too, but I don’t know if I can squat over a shallow hole in the ground.”
When Rosalie returned from the thicket, I filled our cast-iron skillet with thick-cut bacon, fired up the Coleman stove, and started breakfast.
We finished, and she smacked her lips appreciatively and then took my hand.
“Well, big guy, that was very good. Let’s take a little walk before you pack everything up and I have to sit in the car again.”
Mister ran ahead, stopping to check on our progress every few minutes. We walked, holding hands, downstream about two hundred yards to a large sign I had not bothered to read the night before.
As we approached, I said, “It probably just identifies the campground with instructions about how to avoid starting forest fires and what to do with your garbage, that kind of stuff.”
We found a skull-and-crossbones announcement. Bold lettering proclaimed:
NOTICE TO ALL CAMPERS. WATER FROM THIS CAMPGROUND, INCLUDING THE STREAM, IS CONTAMINATED. UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES SHOULD WATER FROM THE STREAM, OR FROM THE WELL, BE USED FOR DRINKING!
Rosalie looked at me and shook her head.
“Well, Doctor, how bad is this? What do you
suppose the water is contaminated with? Are we going to be sick? Why on earth didn’t you see this last night?”
I tried to calm her. “Look at the notice. It’s probably been there since last summer. The stream is full of ice melt and probably pure by now. In any case, we boiled all the water we used, so it’s not very likely we’ll get anything.”
Her look told me she wasn’t buying what I was selling.
We walked back.
Rosalie retrieved her makeup case and climbed into the front seat of the car. Before she closed the door, she inquired. “Will it be possible to pack up and leave as soon as possible? I would really appreciate finding a gas station or restaurant with a real toilet and running water, preferably hot, and, oh yes, safe to drink. I think I can feel an acute attack of diarrhea coming on already.” She closed the car door more firmly than necessary.
We got back to the highway and drove to Saratoga where we found a combination gas station, sporting goods store, and restaurant. We went into the restaurant while a pimple-faced teenager filled the car with gas and checked the oil and tires. I ordered coffee while Rosalie rushed to the ladies’ room. The teenager came inside, and I paid for the gas and then moved the car out of the way. Rosalie joined me in the booth, her hair in a long ponytail, but she was not smiling. I figured the restroom had to be gruesome, considering the condition of the men’s room I had visited between my second and third cups of coffee.
Back in the car, she ranted. “Well, that ranks as the fifth worse experience in my entire life, and the other four also involved gas-station restrooms! Peeing in the woods was bad, but at least it wasn’t so filthy I had to avoid touching anything!”
I said nothing.
We drove over Togwotee Pass arriving at the campgrounds at Coulter Bay on Jackson Lake in Grand Teton National Park. Rosalie went to check out the restrooms. She returned gushing.
“They are clean, very elaborate, flush toilets, hot showers, and ceramic tile. I can deal with this kind of camping!”
***
After spending another rainy night at Jackson Lake, we only had two days to experience Yellowstone Park. Stopping briefly at the South Entrance, we grabbed a handful of pamphlets, a map of the park, and continued in the rain. As we drove, I lectured Rosalie on the history of the Corps of Discovery, the fur industry in the northwest of the early 1800s, and especially of the Sidney area where the Yellowstone River joins the Missouri.
Rosalie smiled stifling a yawn with her hand.
“What... why are you smiling like that?”
“You are so sexy when you wax eloquent about the history stuff,” she teased pushing up the short hair on the back of my neck.
We drove on, stopping at the various points of interest for a few minutes each until we reached an empty Madison Junction campground at the north end of Madison Valley. The main road into the campground branched into multiple loops with well-sited camping areas, looking south down a narrow, flat flood plain, covered with brilliant green grass and budding wild flowers. I set up camp while Rosalie and Mister checked out the facilities.
“Well, it’s barely adequate compared to Jackson Hole—no tile, no hot water, no flush toilets—but the privies are clean and only about a hundred yards up this gravel road.” She motioned with her head. “There’s a pump near the outhouses, and I pumped it,” she reported, “and water came out.”
“Outstanding!”
“Yeah,” she smirked, “and there were no signs warning of contamination; I checked carefully.”
“You’re just not going to give me a pass on that, huh?”
“Not for a very long time.”
“Well,” I said, changing the subject, “tonight’s menu calls for chili.”
I put bacon into a pot. When the bacon was crispy, I dumped a chopped whole onion into the grease and then cubes of round steak seasoned with garlic salt and coarse ground black pepper. After the beef browned, I added half of a disarticulated chicken. Once the chicken browned, I added what was left of the Coors I had been sipping and opened another. “You want one?” I offered, extending the can.
Rosalie took it, sipped, and made a face, handing it back. “I don’t understand how you can drink that stuff.”
I grinned. “Drinking the beer is the most important part of my recipe.”
She watched, chin resting on her hands, elbows on the table, as I finished putting in the spices and vegetable ingredients.
“This is best if it simmers for at least two or three hours, but we probably didn’t start early enough for that. Are you starving, or can you wait an hour or so?”
“Oh, I suppose I’ll survive for an hour,” she laughed.
A car with New Jersey plates pulling a pop-up camper drove up and stopped, a young man behind the wheel. A girl in her late teens sat in the middle of the front seat. The young man rolled down his window.
“Hi, any bears here?”
“We haven’t seen any here, but there are supposed to be plenty of them around,” answered Rosalie.
The young man looked around nervously and then spotted Mister. The dog, as was his custom, positioned himself between Rosalie and anyone he didn’t know.
“Look at the beautiful German shepherd, Caroline. He’s huge. Is he afraid of bears?”
“Nope,” I replied.
Mister kept his eyes on the couple as they conducted a whispered conversation. The rest of the campground was empty, but they pulled into the campsite next to ours. Leaving the trailer hooked to the car, the young man raised the top of the camper, and the couple climbed inside.
We went for a long walk. After we returned, I wandered over to the garbage pit. “Look, honey, the garbage pit has this heavy, latched steel lid, designed to keep the bears out. You have to release this latch with one foot and then step on this pedal with your other foot to operate the lid.”
“Aren’t you hungry?” asked Rosalie. She pulled out the dishes and silverware, setting the table. “I’m starving. The chili smells wonderful!”
I served each of us a large bowlful. “Perfect,” I declared, “picante but not enough to mask the flavor.”
“For you,” she laughed, waving her hand in front of her mouth, taking a large gulp of water, “but it is good.” She took another spoonful.
There was still chili left when we declared ourselves full.
“Should we try to save it?” I asked.
“I don’t think so. We have plenty of food with us. What would you put it in?”
“Well, it seems a shame to toss it.” Nevertheless, I walked to the garbage pit, scraped the contents of the pot into the pit, and let the lid slam shut.
Clouds masked the stars, the moon not yet up. I lit the lantern. We played gin rummy sitting across from each other. While I was dealing out another hand, Rosalie thumbed through one of the pamphlets we had collected.
“Now look at this,” she said holding up a pamphlet and tapping it with her right index finger.
SPICY FOODS ATTRACT BEARS. DO NOT PUT SPICY FOODS IN GARBAGE BINS.
“Oops... too late now,” I blushed, shrugging.
It was half-past eight, but we were already yawning.
“It might be warm enough to open up the sleeping bags,” I suggested.
“Might be,” she smiled back.
Mister and I waited at the pump while Rosalie used one of the privies. After she came out, I pumped water while she brushed her teeth. I filled the stainless steel bucket halfway with water, carried it back, and put it on the Coleman stove to warm. Once it was heated, I poured some of the water into a dishpan and left Rosalie in the tent with it, the lantern, Mister, and her overnight case.
Throwing a clean towel over my shoulder, I made my way back to the privies, my shirt unbuttoned, the laces on my hiking boots untied, my kit with shaving gear, toothbrush, toothpaste, and soap under my arm. For an unknown but perhaps prescient reason, I also took the ax thinking to get more firewood on my way back.
After using the outhouse, I stood at the w
ater pump, brushing my teeth. There was a loud metallic clang, as a garbage pit lid was ripped open. Rosalie screamed, and Mister erupted into furious, angry barking. I grabbed the ax and ran down the gravel road, toothbrush clenched between my teeth, toothpaste foaming out of my mouth. The towel flew off my shoulder. My toes grabbed frantically to keep my unlaced boots on as I ran. I saw Mister’s silhouette, clawing at the tent flap.
A small black bear was standing over the garbage pit. Through the fabric of the tent, back-lit by the lantern, I saw Rosalie. She was screaming at Mister while trying to hold him back. The bear looked over its shoulder as it reached down into the garbage bin for more of my famous chili. I spat out the toothbrush and started shouting. “GET OUT! TAKE OFF! YEEOUH!”
I squatted down and unzipped the tent flap that was starting to tear from Mister’s attack. “Let him loose, honey. It’s just a small bear.” I grabbed the dog’s collar as he lunged through the opening. The two of us now faced the bear, the dog growling.
“GO ON! GET OUT! SCRAM!”
The bear moved to face us, nonchalantly watching us directly instead of over his shoulder. He continued to fish out and eat the chili. When finished, he turned, glanced over his shoulder, and then strolled away, unconcerned by antics of man or dog.
As soon as the bear departed, the young couple erupted from their camper. The girl quickly unlocked the car door and climbed in, locking the door behind her. The young man scurried around the camper, got it folded back down, ran to the car, and knocked on the window, looking in all directions for the long-gone bear. The girl unlocked the door, and he jumped in locking the door. Gravel spewed as they swiveled down the road and out of the campground.
Rosalie came out of the tent and stood next to me hugging me around the waist with her left arm and patting Mister with her right hand.
“My hero and my hero,” she murmured.
“However, you, husband, need considerable work on reading warnings. My God, for an experienced camper, you don’t seem very aware of dangers!”
Animals Don't Blush Page 4
